


Saccharine Hostilities

by Laintadhg



Series: States of Change [4]
Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mild Angst, headcanons ahoy!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3982501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laintadhg/pseuds/Laintadhg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sharp, calculating blue roved over his face like it was a puzzle that needed to be solved. He got the feeling that she’d always felt that way about him, like he was broken into a million little pieces and she was the one who had to pick them up and glue them back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saccharine Hostilities

**Author's Note:**

> This may or may not end up in a series with other ficlets in the same timeline. We shall see...

It had been a trying day for Seifer Almasy. Not that every day since the wars hadn’t been trying, of course, but this one – well, this one had taken the cake, the ice cream, _and_ the chintzy party hats. That day, he stood trial for his crimes, facing his mistakes for nine regret-filled hours before the Tribunal adjourned. They had picked apart his every move, every word since he’d broken out of Balamb Garden and headed to Timber four years ago. He never would have thought that being the center of attention would be so exhausting.

Sliding his keycard into the door, the tell-tale click of the lock had him turning the handle without looking down. He’d done enough of that to avoid the stares shot at him from across the court-room all day. A soft light in the living room was peeking through the darkness of the suite, the sound of water running coming from the bathroom. He tensed, thinking for a moment that an intruder was present, but a glance toward the coffee table eased his nerves. A familiar taupe bag with the noticeable coil of Save the Queen tucked inside was sitting on it, which could only mean that his Garden-appointed legal counsel was paying him a visit.

Sighing, he stepped into the room and flicked on the main light, setting down his bag as the door clicked shut behind him. He toed off his shoes and tucked them against the wall before taking off his deep-blue blazer and chucking it across the couch. He was loosening his tie and pouring a glass of aged Trebian bourbon when the bathroom door opened and he heard Quistis cursing, “Good-Hyne, Seifer! Is it so horrible to announce yourself when you enter a room?”

“...It’s _my_ room, Trepe. I don’t have to announce shit.” Sipping from his glass, he noticed how frazzled she looked as she glared at him and straightened her skirt. Her eyes were rimmed with red, pale cheeks the tiniest bit flushed. It seemed like the day had gotten to her, too.

Lifting an empty glass, he tilted it at her in suggestion. “Want one?”

She seemed to be chewing on the thought for a moment, her mouth pursing ever so slightly and no doubt admonishing his drinking habits in her head. To his surprise, however, she walked right up to the kitchenette’s bar and sat primly on the stool in front of him. “Yes…Yes, I do.”

Quirking an eyebrow with a disbelieving frown, he poured her glass carefully, adding an ice cube as an afterthought. She wrinkled her nose at the gesture and opened her mouth as if to speak, but closed it a second later, fingers brushing against his as she took the glass from him. He didn’t think about the cool texture of her skin. Or maybe he did. He knocked back the rest of his bourbon with a hiss and poured himself the next double while he shoved that thought from his brain.

She was eyeing him surreptitiously over her glass, her hand dangling the cut-crystal in front of her delicately. Sharp, calculating blue roved over his face like it was a puzzle that needed to be solved. He got the feeling that she’d always felt that way about him, like he was broken into a million little pieces and she was the one who had to pick them up and glue them back together. And the driving force behind it? The same ill-placed mothering instinct that had made her bossy at the orphanage and pushed her towards become an instructor. At least that was how he saw it.

“You gonna look at it or drink it?” He asked after watching her watch him for far too long. Her gaze, which had softened for a moment, instantly froze over as she lifted the glass to her coral-pink lips. She downed half of it and glared at him, almost impressive in her constitution, until her eyes widened and she started coughing from the burn of the liquor. He bit the inside of his cheek to hold back the laugh, but it didn’t help in the least.

“Shut up,” She snapped at him, wiping her mouth with a tissue as her eyes all but bore holes in his face. She fished out another ice cube and dropped it into the glass before grabbing the bourbon from him and uncorking it. The amber liquid poured over the cubes, melting slightly as they shifted, and he swore he saw something melt in her eyes, just the same.

 _Stop thinkin’ corny shit, you sappy jackass_ , He scolded himself, forgetting entirely to retort to her snippy remark from a moment before. He’d blame the exhaustion from the trial when he thought back to it later. A soft sigh and a mumbled word caught his attention and pulled his glance back up from the countertop. Quistis was leaning on one hand as the other drew little lines in the condensation of her glass, her eyes doleful, but focused on her task. He pulled her from her thoughts with a simple, “What?”

“Hm..?” She hummed, looking up at him like she’d just realized he was there, eyes glazed and unfocused for a moment before returning to their usual cool gleam. She was already buzzed. What a lightweight. Licking his lips, he leaned down on his elbows and prodded, wanting to know what tipsy Quisty had let slip, “What’d you say? Before, you mumbled somethin’. What was it?”

“Oh, no, I…was thinking out loud,” She managed, heat creeping into her cheeks under his scrutiny. She knew if she repeated herself, he’d never let her hear the end of it. Or he’d snap and go on and on about how he hated pity. There was a fifty-fifty chance of either, really. To her chagrin, he pushed on anyways. “So think out loud again. What’d you say, Trepe?”

Gritting her teeth behind her lips, she sighed and looked the other way before mumbling again, “…Said ‘Sorry’…”

“What was that?” Now he was just toying with her, having heard her words, but just wanting to make her repeat herself.

“I said, ‘I’m sorry about how today went! It must have been hard for you!’” She shouted at him, slamming her hand down on the counter and raising out of her seat to sit taller than him. Her eyes blazed with her emotions, this particular set being irritation and rage, and it dawned on him that this wasn’t typical for his chilly, ice-queen instructor.

Keeping his too-cool-for-school façade in place, he sucked on his teeth and thought his options through for a moment. He could play the victim, take her kindness and be the hurt puppy-dog she could heal and comfort all she wanted. Or he could lash out, push her away, and not have to deal with the healing and stupid feelings that came along with it. Standing back up and crossing his arms over his chest, he found the decision to be incredibly easy. “You pityin’ me, Trepe? ‘Cause I don’t need that shit. I’ve _never_ needed that – “

 _Here we go again…_ She thought as she groaned and ran a hand through her bangs, interrupting him out loud a moment later, “Yes, yes everyone knows you don’t need pity, Seifer! _Trust_ me, I do _not_ pity you! Not even a tiny bit and you know why?” she tried to pause for dramatic flair, but he wouldn’t let her have the satisfaction.

“No! _Enlighten_ me, Instructor!” He sneered, throwing a hand up in anger.

Shoving away from the counter, she stood from her seat and stomped a few steps away, her back turned to him. “Jeez – Fuc – ! It’s because you’re so damned _infuriating_!”

“No shit! Gotta reach my asshole quota _somehow_!”

Whipping back around, she pointed at him accusingly and shouted her next words louder than before, “ _THIS_! This _right here_ is what is gonna get you convicted! You running your mouth to the people who have the power to help you is precisely why you’re gonna rot in jail for the next eternity!”

Narrowing his eyes, he rounded the counter and advanced on her, his tone rife with a twisted bit of humor, “ _Really_?! Is it? ‘Cause I thought it was all the dead kids in Trebia? Or the injured Galbadian soldiers buried alive in mass graves? What about the general slaughter of all mankind I tried to carry out on behalf of a Sorceress whore? That sounds a little more compelling than me running my mouth.”

Quistis wanted so badly to criticize him, call him a hypocrite for pitying himself far more than anyone had ever pitied him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She could see the guilt set just beneath the arrogance and aggression, like slow-moving water underground that eroded the layers of sediment above it. It was only a matter of time before those upper layers grew thin and collapsed under their own weight. When they did, that guilt would surge upwards and drown him.

While she’d been standing with her thoughts, Seifer’s anger had subsided, partially because of the liquor in his blood, partially because he was too tired to keep it going. Shoulders slumping, he turned back towards the bar and refilled his half-empty glass, fully determined to get plastered and forget the day entirely. When he turned back around, Quistis was staring at him all misty-eyed again, earning herself a scoff and an eye roll from him.

Sipping his drink, he made his way over to the couch and set the glass down, gaze flicking back to her when he remembered he was supposed to ask her something. “…I know you didn’t come here to just to argue with me, Trepe…Why’re you here?”

He didn’t have to look up to know she was moving towards him, cautiously of course, but it did seem strange that he couldn’t hear her move. He glanced down and noticed that she’d taken off her shoes, another glance up and he saw her drink back in her hand. He wondered when she’d had the time, but then he remembered that she was a mercenary, same as him. She could move faster and quieter than any average person could dream of. The idea of it turned him on as much as it scared him, a combination he was unfortunately familiar with.

She sat down before she replied to him, tucking her feet under her on the cushion, yet remaining decent in her pencil skirt, “…I came by to make sure you were okay.”

He opened his mouth to complain, tell her he was a grown man and didn’t need looking after, but she held up her hand and cut him off before he could. “Shut your mouth, Almasy. I don’t care how tough you think you are, that was brutal today. Everyone in that courtroom was out for blood and they were getting it. They wanted to see you crumble, to put you through your paces and watch you fall apart…They think you deserve it.”

“Don’t I, though?” He asked, mock amusement thick in his voice.

She turned to face him more fully and shook her head, brows furrowed in concern. “No, Seifer…I don’t think you do.”

Turning, he thought he'd find a smirk on her lips or a hint of a laugh bubbling up, but her face was open and sincere. In a way, he wished he was worse at reading her, worse at knowing what the lines of her frown and the tilt of her lips meant. It would be so much easier to dismiss her concern that way.

“Yeah, well…You’re not on the jury, so I guess I’m shit outta luck, huh?” He offered with a dull-eyed smirk, fishing in his pockets for his smokes. She watched him take the small dingy packet from the fine cloth of his slacks and tap out a single cigarette on his palm. He got it all the way between his lips, a match poised to light it, before she spoiled his fun, as usual.

“This room is non-smoking.”

“…Disabled the smoke detectors on the first day,” He waved to the ceiling where an empty detection unit hung limply, proceeding to light up anyways, “They’ll never know.”

“Yes they will. The smell lingers, you know. Besides, that’s incredibly dangerous. What if there’s a fire?” She gestured to the kitchen, a little voice in her head laughing hysterically. _As if he’d ever cook. He’d burn water if he even tried._

He noticed the amused look on her face, thinking she found the idea of him burning alive to be chuckle-worthy. He always figured she had a sadistic side, what with the whip being her weapon of choice and all. “Then I’ll go down in flames, just like I always planned it.”

“…You’ll go down in a hospital bed with stage four lung cancer if you keep up this habit,” She chided, sipping her drink with skill this time. If he didn’t know any better, he might’ve told her how hot she looked right then, like some kind of expensive prostitute with high-profile clients. Polished, precise, but just dirty enough beneath it all to earn her keep. Yeah, if he even hinted at that, he’d get his ass whooped all the way to Centra and back.

“Hyne, Quistis, why do you care?” He asked after taking a drag, confusion writ in his brow as he exhaled his personal toxic cloud. After all that he’d put her through, literally since they were children, he couldn’t see why she would give a single shit about him. He was a cocky, hard-headed douchebag and he knew it. Why didn’t she?

“…I feel responsible for you,” She admitted, knowing it was the obvious answer. She wanted to be honest with him, but how could she be, really? He was so brusque, so harsh when she tried to be genuine with him. She could barely show him sympathy without him biting her head off. How could she possibly tell him how close she felt they’d grown, how much she enjoyed his company, how often she thought of him throughout the day, even when they were apart? She couldn’t. Not yet, at least.

“Feeling responsible is the same as caring. That’s not an answer. _Why_ do you feel responsible?” He asked again, persistent, but not aggressively so. He didn’t think he’d wanted an answer when he’d asked initially, but he found himself curious about her motives. He’d speculated about them on his own for so long that he figured it was time he just _asked_.

Chewing on the inside of her lip, she avoided eye contact and tapped her glass with her fingers, stalling as long as she could. When she dared a glance at him, he was watching her expectantly and it became clear that he wasn’t about to let it go. Swallowing, she wiped her glass with her thumb and spoke, “You asked for this, so…Don’t get all defensive if you don’t like what you hear.”

He shrugged, inhaling more cancer fumes and blowing them away from her, almost respectfully. “No promises.”

“…Fine…” Sighing, she figured that was as good as it was going to get, so she rubbed the bridge of her nose, shook her head, and tried her best. “I guess I…I don’t know…Before the war, I knew you were talented, smart...I mean, we both passed the written SeeD exam at fifteen and made it to the field exams that spring. We were the youngest Cadets in history to make it that far and that told me that you were on my level in terms of skill, even if you weren’t as…mature back then. When you didn’t pass and I made instructor two years later, I asked for you in my classes because I wanted to help you see your own potential.”

“I’ve always known how good I am, Trepe. Didn’t need your help with that.” He blew a smoke ring for the hell of it, poking through the center with a bored expression.

She shot him a warning glare. “Do you want me to continue?”

“Yeah, yeah, get on with it.”

Clearing her throat, she moved into the meat of her answer, “Anyway, during the war, there was so much going on...I was so busy wrapping my head around what we were facing and all the revelations that came with it that I really didn’t think about you until you were right there in front of me, fighting for _her_. And then…you looked worn out and you didn’t sound like yourself. It was like you were convincing yourself of what you were saying _as_ you said it…I wanted to try and talk you out of it all, but I never had the chance. Now…I feel guilty that I didn’t try harder back then. I’m not sure if I could have reached you, but I still feel like I should have tried.”

“…So it’s guilt, then?” He looked at her intensely, like he was puzzling out more than she was saying. She shook her head and waved her hand to dismiss his idea.

“No, not _just_ guilt…” She sighed and worried her lip again, trying to phrase what she wanted to say as cleanly as possible. One wrong word and Seifer would twist it into something far more than it was. _Though_ , a little voice whispered from the back of her mind, _It wouldn’t be all that bad if he did…_

Shaking her head, she pushed through her own betraying thoughts and continued, “We’ve been working together almost every day for, what, ten months now? Whether we like it or not, we’ve gotten…familiar with each other. I know you sleep like shit without sedatives, but that you lie about it on your medical exams. You know that those Estharian Bento Boxes make me insanely happy because I compulsively separate my food. I’ve grown used to having you around and that familiarity is somehow comforting…If we were to stop seeing each other every day – which I understand is a very real possibility, given our situation – it would feel…strange. And it would be difficult to adjust to. So…I guess I care because I’m used to you and I – I don’t want to give you up just yet. I mean – give up on you…just yet…”

Some wisecrack about the movie with the two gay cattle herders came to mind, but Seifer stifled the urge to blurt it out. He’d asked for her honesty and she’d given it to him. No holier-than-thou bullshit, no sass, just her feelings for him. Or _about_ him. No, definitely _for_ him. The wisecrack slipped out anyways while he fought with himself internally, “Can’t quit me, huh?”

“Ugh, you stupid - !” Setting her drink down and picking up a throw pillow, she whipped it at him with surprising speed. It hit him square in the mouth with the zipper, drawing a bit of blood, but mostly just shocking him. _Violence has never been so adorable. I’m gonna retch if she keeps this up,_ The sickly sweet part of his brain chimed in as he threw a pillow right back, his grin forcing more blood down his chin and onto his stark white shirt.

Wiping the blood from his face, he stubbed out his cigarette and smirked at Quistis. “Seriously, Trepe? You wanna go?”

She grinned right back, eyes alight with just as much playful malice as his. “Bring it, Almasy.”

And then it was nothing but pillows flying through the air with meaningless curses, the two of them ending up on the floor kneeling behind the arm rests of the couch for tactical cover after a few moments. They continued by cautiously throwing the smaller pillows like grenades, peeking over the couch while they tossed them and ducking back behind their cover quickly as they could. Soon, however, all their pillows were in no-man’s land, leaving both sides without ammo. They sat, backs to the couch and feet tucked in close, much like they would be in a real combat zone, and silently strategized how best to take the other out.

Quistis broke the silence first, testing how easily she could distract her opponent, “Ready to surrender, Almasy?”

“When have I _ever_ surrendered?” He called back with a laugh, slowly creeping around to the back of the couch, barely making a rustle on the carpet. He waited for her to speak again before he continued crawling towards her side from the shadowed back of the couch.

“…Never. But that’s because you’ve glorified a soldier’s death so much that you’ve stamped out your survival instincts,” She reasoned, peeking over the arm rest to still see his coat resting on the other side. She thought he was still sitting here, trying to outsmart her with one of his ill-planned ideas. Little did she know that he was already on the offensive and waiting patiently only two feet behind her.

When she didn’t hear a response, she narrowed her eyes and dared a look around the front of the couch, figuring she’d catch him trying to sneak up on her. The soft ‘ _schiff’_ of silk on linen caught her attention a moment too late and her eyes were blindfolded before she could turn around.

“And you’re dead,” He whispered with a chuckle in her ear, sending a shiver down her spine at his proximity. He slid his tie off of her eyes and steadied her gently, giving her a smug look when she turned to face him. “Almasy, one. Trepe, _zero_.”

Expression unamused, Quistis took the tie from him and bound his hands tightly before he realized what she was doing. She shot him a smirk that rivaled his own in deviance and rose to her feet in one fluid motion. He was still sitting on the floor struggling with the knots when she turned back to face him, drink in hand. “I think that makes us even?”

Eyes narrowed and mouth pursed, he stood to his full height and looked down at her with a mixture of amusement and irritation. She looked so proud of herself, smug even, and he couldn’t help but think the emotion looked good on her. Acting purely on impulse, he pulled a move from a film he’d seen some years ago and slid his bound hands over her head, resting them on the small of her back. Leaning down, he locked eyes with her and spoke low, “I don’t like being even with you, Trepe.”

He thought he had the upper hand there, holding her in place and being bigger and generally more menacing, but she took hold of the situation in an instant. With a tilt of her head and firm pressure behind her lips, she kissed him and he, for once, was speechless.

“I know,” She said against his lips, barely breaking their contact, “You always did prefer it when I won.”


End file.
